Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  But then, at the drum of galloping hooves, everyone turned toward Cayuga Street. Bronwen appeared, racing a buggy at breakneck speed from the railroad station. Emma looked rather pale when she saw her cousin's wildly tangled hair and arms crisscrossed by scratches. But the hair had quickly been tamed with brushes and combs and flowered wreath, the scratches mostly concealed with face powder.

  The wedding ceremony had taken place at a quarter to twelve, only fifteen minutes late.

  Afterwards Bronwen told her aunt what had happened, at least those parts of it agent Llyr was at liberty to tell. Glynis did not reciprocate with her deduction regarding the mastermind behind the smuggling operation. She thought she knew who it was, even if Treasury didn't. But the time for revealing it was not now.

  Her brother now asked her, "Can I get you more punch, Glyn?"

  "Please, yes, Robin."

  As he went off to the punch bowls, she glanced around, deciding that men never looked more handsome than when, complaining every minute, they had been forced into formal dress. Today they were decked out in shades of fawn and dove gray. The portly Merrycoyf, Adam's best man, appeared to have stepped directly from the pages of Harper's, or from a sketch of Dickens's more well-to-do characters. Adam himself wore a velvet coat the color of claret wine. It had undoubtedly been Emma's choice.

  At the moment, her three nieces were seated under a white dogwood, undergoing a photographer's endurance test ,which made them pose in the same position for minutes at a time. It was no wonder that even Emma's smile was wavering.

  How different they were from one another, Glynis thought, as she had thought many times before. Any similarity was to be found only in their size, which was almost the same, with Bronwen a shade taller than her sister and cousin. Emma, her dark hair partly concealed by veiling, her gray eyes glistening like stones under sunlit water, radiated the glow which a wedding was believed to bestow upon a young woman. And if this was too rosy a picture of some brides, today it appeared to portray Emma perfectly.

  Kathryn, of honeyed hair and dark blue eyes, had arrived the previous afternoon, having just completed a nurses' training period in New York City. Last evening it had been Kathryn, alone of the family, who had tried to deflect the irritation directed at her younger sister's conspicuous absence. Glynis, chafing under sworn secrecy, had been grateful when Kathryn said in her gentle voice, "I think Bronwen must be involved in something for the Treasury. She would never deliberately slight us—it's not in her nature."

  Coming from someone else, this might have sounded persuasive. But everyone there knew that Kathryn would try, if at all possible, to find reason to excuse Caligula. It was her nature.

  "Aunt Glyn!" Bronwen's voice now called. "Aunt Glyn, would you come over here?"

  Having escaped the photographer, Bronwen was standing at the edge of the Ushers' bordering pine trees. Glynis went toward her, threading through groups of family and friends, wondering what intrigue Bronwen might be hatching now, for her voice had held an unmistakable note of urgency.

  "What is it?" Glynis asked when she reached her niece.

  Bronwen took her arm and all but dragged her in among the pine trees. "Sundown's here! You know he won't come over here with this crowd," she said over her shoulder with, Glynis thought, remarkable tact.

  She walked through the remaining trees to Harriet's back yard, where the black-and-white paint stood patiently, its rider astride.

  "Wanted to see you before I left," he said.

  "Are you going to Ohio?"

  "For a while. Gave McClellan my word I'd be back."

  And that would be enough, Glynis thought, if McClellan knew this man at all. He seldom gave his word. When he did, it was uncompromising.

  He reached inside his buckskin jacket and withdrew a small wooden box on which had been carved an intricate design of dogwood blossoms. "To keep you out of trouble. When I can't be here," he said, handing the box down to her.

  Glynis brushed at her eyes with her gloved hand.

  "Got to go," he said. His warmed gold eyes looked down at her for a long moment, then he wheeled the paint around.

  "Please stay safe, Jacques," she said. "Let me know where you are, how you are."

  "You know I will."

  When he rode off, Glynis stood there until he was out of sight. She took the lid off the box—the carving must have taken him days—and took out a thin silver chain from which hung the small silver figure of a running wolf.

  She put it around her neck, slipping it under the bodice of her gown, and tried to compose herself enough to return to the wedding party. It took some time. As she walked back through the pine trees and stepped onto the grass beside a flower bed, she felt something snag her satin sleeve. She looked down to see a rose bush, its full, scarlet buds just opening; her sleeve had been snared by one of its thorny stems. As she carefully unhooked herself, something skimmed across her mind. She frowned, trying to recover it, but she was halfway across the grass before it came to her. She stopped and turned to stare at the rose bush.

  Even at the far edge of the grounds, and dwarfed by the pink and white trees and shrubs, the red blooms drew the eye like a magnet. And Glynis realized she had very nearly made a serious mistake.

  She believed that she knew who murdered Roland Brant. Because there seemed little in the way of proof, she hadn't as yet spoken to Cullen. She had also waited to speak in deference to those who were not guilty, as Brant hadn't been buried until dusk the previous evening. But earlier this morning she had given Liam a letter to deliver to the Brant house.

  "Don't wait for a reply," she'd told him. "I doubt there will be one."

  She now saw that she had been misled. Deliberately misled by the ancient trick of dragging a herring across a trail to cover a scent and thus divert the hunter. The red herring here had taken the form of a rose.

  ***

  Somewhat later, after Emma and Adam had left for their wedding trip, the Usher grounds remained crowded, as if all were reluctant to leave this ephemeral Garden of Eden to rejoin the real world. Glynis, walking back from the road where the couple's carriage had just rumbled off, looked over the beautiful grounds and experienced a profound sadness. Some of those here today, she thought, may never be again.

  The war could claim them. Her nephews, the brothers of Bronwen and Kathryn and Emma. Bronwen's rugged young Marsh, who had arrived this morning from the small Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg. Jonathan Quant, Liam Cleary, Danny Ross, and even Adam. And if Negroes were allowed to fight to free their brothers, she knew Isaiah Smith and Zeph would go.

  It was said by many that the conflict could not last long. That the South would soon drop to its knees in surrender. But what if it did not? And then if the younger men were not enough to feed the war, would the call come for older men? Her brother Robin. Brother-in-law Owen Llyr. Abraham Levy. Cullen and Jacques....

  How many would not come back? How many women, both North and South, would be left impoverished, widowed, unable to fend for themselves and their children? How many would need to care for men so badly wounded they had little life remaining?

  Glynis shook her head. This was not the time to think of the uncertain future. Carpe diem. Seize the day, this warm, loving day, and face tomorrow only when it came.

  She gathered up the skirt of her gown, and went across the grass.

  28

  SUNDAY

  While the nation's life hung in the balance, and the dread artillery of war drowned alike the voices of commerce, politics, religion and reform, all hearts were filled with anxious forebodings, all hands were busy in solemn preparations for the awful tragedies to come.

  —Elizabeth Cady Stanton, History of Woman Suffrage

  Church bells were tolling to gather the faithful. Glynis winced, recalling the frowns of disapproval when it became apparent that neither she nor Bronwen would be joining the family for services. The two of them had left the breakfast table in the Carr's Hotel dining room, ostensibly to powder t
heir noses; the euphemism employed even though everyone knew it meant use of the water closet. Their plan called for them to maneuver with some degree of finesse. Alas, at the hotel door they had been intercepted. It then became all too transparent that they were not sneaking out to attend church. Fortunately no one had seemed to notice the ungainly bulge in Glynis's large book bag caused by the short-handled crowbar ordinarily used to open crates of library books.

  "We are in utter disgrace," she said to Bronwen as they hurried across the Seneca River bridge.

  "When you've been in disgrace as often as I have," Bronwen replied, "you get used to it. You even begin to expect it. Besides, by now everybody's in church—supposedly learning forgiveness!"

  "I fear your mother is right, Bronwen—I'm a bad influence. If I weren't so worried that evidence might be removed, I would have waited to do this until you'd all left town. As I had planned to do, before your account of the Oswego River raid. Now I'm worried that it might be too late. You, though, should have stayed there with the others."

  "Do you think I'd miss this? Don't look so upset, Aunt Glyn. If you're right, Rhys Bevan might raise my salary. And you and I will be heroes."

  "People are seldom considered heroes by their own families. Having usually, in the process of becoming heroic, offended almost everyone. And I may not even be right about this."

  "Even if you're not, it's better than sitting through church. Reverend Eames is a nice man, but we heard him say it all yesterday. I thought that wedding ceremony would never end."

  "Now there is a real hero," Glynis said. "Do you know how much Reverend Eames has risked, working with the Underground Railroad? People like him can receive long jail sentences, when they help escaped slaves."

  "I know," Bronwen said. "But even more people will die in this war over slavery. What we're doing right now could mean a few less will die, so I don't think Reverend Eames would object."

  Glynis had stopped midway across the bridge to look at her niece. "I didn't know you had any feelings at all about slavery."

  "I didn't used to," Bronwen agreed. "Seeing it firsthand changed my mind. I heard plenty of Southerners say this war is about everything but slavery. Now who could believe that? If there were no slaves, there would be no war!"

  It was somewhat refreshing, thought Glynis, that Bronwen had not lost her intolerance of ambiguity.

  They reached the south side of the bridge and turned onto the towpath along the canal, then passed under the wooden sign of Serenity's Tavern. It swung from a shiny black beam that jutted out over the path and creaked softly in the warm breeze. Ahead of the tavern stood a gray stone warehouse.

  "I wonder," Glynis said, "if anyone in the tavern has noticed activity at that warehouse?"

  "Do you want to stop in and ask?"

  "Certainly not." Glynis saw Bronwen's grin and sideways glance, but continued, "On a Sunday morning, that would really raise some dust. Or on any other morning for that matter."

  "Cullen would do it."

  "We are not Cullen. We are to all appearances respectable women. Women who want to appear respectable do not go into taverns. One has to draw the line on public conduct somewhere, Bronwen, and that would be well over mine."

  She knew her niece was regarding her with amused skepticism, but chose to ignore it.

  As they approached the warehouse, they could see the door fronting the canal. Nailed to it was the sheriff's notice of attachment.

  Bronwen went forward to try the door handle. "It's locked, which is no surprise. But if there's no one around to—"

  "No! We are not breaking in."

  "How else do you propose to get inside?"

  Glynis sighed. "I expected there would be a guard here."

  "On Sunday morning?"

  "Why not? I doubt thieves take Sunday off to attend church," Glynis answered. "It never occurred to me the sheriff wouldn't have someone posted here. Now I really am concerned."

  "I'll walk around it, see if there are any broken windows."

  Glynis started to protest, but then decided it would not necessarily be an unconscionable way to enter. Broken windows should be repaired, after all, lest they tempt those without scruples.

  This sophistry aside, Glynis needed to know, and quickly, if her speculation was correct. She had worried all day yesterday, but could hardly leave her niece's wedding party to traipse down here. And now, while Bronwen was exploring ways to break the law, she should probably study the trees along the canal and hope that, in the event anyone was watching, she would be taken for a Thoreau enthusiast.

  "Well, well!" came a throaty voice from the direction of Serenity's.

  Glynis whirled round to see the tavern's statuesque proprietor coming down the steps of her establishment, gowned in a striped rose-and-green taffeta that was unmistakably one of Emma's creations. Spills of frothy white lace at neck, sleeves, and hem gave the wearer a virginal appearance. Knowing this woman, the irony could well be intentional.

  "When you passed my window, I couldn't believe my eyes," said Serenity, her smile laden with mischief. "Out for an early morning stroll, Miss Glynis Tryon?"

  "Would you believe me if I said yes, Miss Serenity Hathaway?"

  "No." Serenity's smile broadened.

  "I thought not. Although it isn't particularly early."

  "It is for me!" Serenity grinned, and tossed her thick, coal-colored hair. "Now you and I have known each other too long, darlin', to dance around a subject. I smell a rat. Question is, why are you sniffing around for it down here in my neck of the woods?"

  Bronwen came around the building, saying, "No luck, Aunt Glyn, the windows are—"

  "And who's this?" Serenity broke in.

  "My niece, Bronwen Llyr. Bronwen, this is Serenity Hathaway. She owns the tavern," Glynis added gratuitously.

  "Your niece?" Serenity's eyes flashed between Glynis and Bronwen in sharp-eyed appraisal as if looking for firm evidence of kinship. "Well," she finally conceded, "you both have red hair. Is it God-given or hennaed?" she asked Bronwen, who for once seemed to be struck dumb.

  But then, nearly everyone was at their first glimpse of this woman. Whatever the expectations, Serenity didn't meet them. She might be one of the most beautiful women ever beheld by human eyes. That she was also the owner of a tavern-cum-brothel did nothing to diminish the impact.

  Bronwen recovered enough to say, "Yes, I'm her niece. Yes, the red is God-given. Good morning, Miss Hathaway."

  "Come to think of it, I've heard about you," Serenity said with a knowing smile. "You're cousin to Miss Emma, right? The one who's always raising hell. Detective for some outfit down in Washington. In town for the wedding."

  Bronwen blinked several times before saying, "That about sums it up."

  "Ah, Serenity," Glynis ventured, trying to keep the reason for being here central before they traveled too far afield. "Since you asked, I need to know something about this warehouse."

  "Why, what are you on to now?" Serenity said, a small frown line appearing in the smooth ivory forehead. She looked at Bronwen again. "You're a detective, huh? The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, right?" She jerked her thumb at Glynis.

  Bronwen grinned. "Right. Detecting's passed on along with red hair—but only to female acorns."

  As Bronwen and Serenity chortled, Glynis felt a growing frustration. She had to get into that warehouse. She would have thought her niece wanted that also, but Bronwen was clearly enjoying herself too much.

  "Excuse me, Serenity," tried Glynis again. "About this building here? Do you ever see people going in and out of it?"

  "Not often, now you mention it. Why?"

  "Is it vacant or being used, do you know?"

  Serenity studied Glynis, seeming to deliberate, and then answered, "The only activity I've seen there has been after dark. Kind of like my line of business. So what's your angle?"

  "I'd like to get inside there," Glynis said. "Until I do, there is no angle."

  "Well, you should have
said so! If you don't mind a little dirt, I can get you in easy enough."

  "You can?" said Bronwen, obviously surprised.

  Glynis was not surprised. Over the course of the past few minutes, she had remembered the tunnels that ran under the tavern like spokes from a wheel. They had originally been used—and some still were—by those involved in the Underground Railroad. Some years ago, she had been in one of the tunnels herself. The warehouse must be connected to the tavern by a subterranean passageway.

  "How do we get in?" Bronwen asked Serenity, as Glynis debated whether to go through with this.

  The prudent thing would be to fetch Cullen—if she could even locate him. But Bronwen was now walking off with Serenity, and Glynis very much doubted that her niece would wait, not with the opportunity that possibly lay ahead. And the warehouse must be searched by someone, because Gerard Gagnon remained in jail, and a shadow still hovered over Tamar. If what Glynis guessed was true, this warehouse might help to free them both. And expose a murderer.

  A minor consideration was that after all she'd had to say about respectable women, she would now be forced to eat her words. Served her right. She cast a careful glance about before following the other two, but she probably needn't worry about anyone seeing her. All respectable women were, or should be, in church.

  ***

  The warehouse's grimy windows gave them barely more light than the tunnel had provided. Glynis held up Serenity's lantern as she and Bronwen stood there, baffled, in the middle of the vast floor.

  "I was convinced this must be the place," Glynis said, their present lack of success gnawing at her. There was the added worry of being caught at this, although she hoped Serenity would warn them if wagons appeared. She brushed cobwebs from her hair and skirt, while Bronwen again began using the crowbar to pry open more lids; so far they'd found only rows of empty crates.